


The Boy In The Bubble

by SDJ2



Category: Simon & Garfunkel
Genre: And I Hate That, Canon Compliant, Friendship, M/M, Making Up, Musicians, Old Friends, RPF, i can't stand them hating each other, i don't need anything else, i mean one day it'll be to late to make amends, i need this to happen, just them rekindling some of the friendship, please for the love of god, reconnecting, someone make this happen, they need to just start talking again, this fic is only a tiny bit sad but very hopeful, why are they so stupid?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:55:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25183618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SDJ2/pseuds/SDJ2
Summary: It's not easy apologizing for the past sixty years or so, but Paul has to try.
Relationships: Art Garfunkel & Paul Simon, Art Garfunkel/Paul Simon
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	The Boy In The Bubble

**Author's Note:**

> I had the idea for this fic for a while since I read [this ask](https://simonandgarfunkel-incorrect.tumblr.com/post/622064662644719616/do-you-ever-wonder-if-paul-looks-up-at-the-clouds) on Tumblr, but then [today's article](https://americansongwriter.com/conversation-with-garfunkel/) where Art literally asks Paul to call him (sob!) spurred me into action to finally write it down and get it out of my system.

Paul sits in a lounger near the edge of his swimming pool in quiet contemplation, thinking, reviewing things long past. Ever since waking up in the morning with dissonant thoughts in his head, though not unusual, he has been restless, roaming around the house without a clear goal, with nothing to do but smile. But he can’t even muster up a laugh these days, sad thoughts and regrets crowding his mind and twisting into all of his daily activities, like a cat’s tail winding around his legs as it waits for food to be put down in front of its nose.

It’s a beautiful summer morning, rays of the sun warming his face alternated by thick, fluffy white clouds passing by, their shadows casting him back into the darkness of gloomy perspective.

He realizes this alternating play of light and shadow is much where his head is at, these days. He twitches on the sunbed, agitated from an unclear motive. In an attempt to stop his fidgeting, he reclines and lies down, his hands clasped behind his neck, and stares up at the sky through his sunglasses.

He hardly notices his daughter arriving, being so lost in thought, but he does finally make a weak smile appear on his face when she sits on the edge of the lounger and lightly puts her hand on his ankle.

“What are you doing, dad?” she asks, her voice light and curious.

“Just staring at the clouds. Thinking,” he replies.

“What about?”

“Oh, you know. Things. This and that.”

Paul opens his eyes to squint at her, her skin an unnatural shade of tan behind the brown lenses of his sunglasses. She has raised her head and is peering at the clouds, too.

“They look funny, don’t they?” she says, and then pats his foot. “Don’t think too much,” she continues, getting up. “It’s not good for your health.” She strips down to her bikini and jumps in the pool, a light spray of water floating in the air and then falling on his body.

Paul looks up again. A particularly thick and white cloud floats by, its edges filled with licks of whispy ringlets. It has an unusual shape, kind of like an upside down Chicago Cloud Gate, kind of like a head full of curls with a bald spot in the middle. Kind of like a head of someone he used to know.

He starts, remembering the words of his daughter. _Don’t think too much_.

 _Think Too Much_. He winces, as memories of a fateful phone call that happened years back flood his mind.

He sighs, realization of what he has to do dawning on him with every inch the cloud moves forward. He will do it, he will. He just has to figure out how apologizing for the last sixty years actually works. It can’t be that easy.

+

He waves at his daughter in the pool while he trots back up to the house. Once inside, he makes for his study directly.

Art picks up at the first ring, as if he’s been waiting next to the phone for Paul to call him. Maybe he was, Paul thinks, and that’s just sad. Paul should have done this sooner, should have let go of his childish anger and resentment years ago.

“Paul,” Art says, and the sound of Paul’s name is strangled, mangled, torn by a sharp intake of breath and maybe even a sob. “Have you read the interview?”

Paul frowns. “What interview?” he questions. He has no idea what Art is talking about but he’s also not sure he _wants_ to know. They haven’t had a great track record in doing interviews lately, if at all. Especially not when one was asked a question about the other.

“Oh god,” Art says. “What’s going on? Are you okay? Is everyone okay?”

Paul winces again. This is what is has come to, he thinks. Apparently Art thinks Paul can only be on the verge of dying if he’s calling and willing to talk.

“Artie, I’m fine.” At the sound of his name, _Artie_ , reserved only for Paul to use, Art starts sniffing, the sound loud in Paul’s ear through the telephone receiver.

“Listen,” Paul continues, trying and barely managing to be undeterred by the sniveling on the other end. “I’ve been thinking. You and I…we should talk. We shouldn’t fight, Artie. I’m tired. I don’t want to feel regret every damn day of my life.”

Art’s voice comes out hoarse and tiny. “You…you feel regret?”

Paul laughs and scratches the back of his head. “Well, yeah…Don’t make it sound like I’m a total psychopath unable to carry any human emotions.”

The sound of Art’s countering laugh feels good. This is how they started. This is how it should end.

“I’m in New York,” Art says. “I could be there in a little more than an hour.”

“Yeah,” Paul states, and with that single word, he tries to convey years of pent-up emotions. It carries a grand invitation for Art to re-enter his life, sixty-seven years after the first time they laughed together in the back of the stage during the school play. 

“But,” Art hesitates. “What about the social distancing? Corona?”

“You are in my bubble, Artie,” Paul says. “You always were, even though it didn't seem like it, I admit,” and then he hears Art blowing his nose, which has nothing to do with any virus.

+

“I’ll set another plate,” he says to Edie, who is cutting carrots in the kitchen. “We’ll have a visitor for lunch.”

She doesn’t say anything but her eyes soften.

+

Paul is more nervous than he cares to admit, but when the car pulls up to his driveway, he gets out the front door anyway. Art’s head appears from behind the car’s door, and they both just stare at each other, taking each other in. It’s been a while since they have last seen each other. Art’s lower lip and chin start to tremble slightly, and Paul thinks he too may be on the verge of crying. He somehow manages to usher Art into the house without tears from either one of them, but the unspoken feelings between them are so palpable and turns the air so thick with weird tension that Edie tells them to sit outside so they can be alone together, and that she’ll bring them their plates in a bit.

In the end, they both sit on the edge of the swimming pool next to each other, feet dangling in the water, Paul’s daughter already back up in her room by then.

Art turns his head and looks at him with wonder and relief, yet Paul almost starts blushing from being scrutinized like this. “Uhm,” he begins, ineloquently. “I thought I should start by saying….”

Art interrupts him. “I know. I am too. I’ve forgiven you a long time ago.”

There is this short moment in which Paul thinks that he’s not the only one at fault here, that Art has also said things and done things that turned this friendship into an almost irreparable scrap heap of broken promises and mutual resentment, but he decides to let it slide. He knows what Art means, that he’s sorry too. It’s time for Paul to forgive as well. He does feel like he should utter _some_ kind of apology, that some words do need to be spoken out loud. He needs to say them and Art needs to hear them.

“But…” he says, but Art interrupts him a second time.

“Paul, can’t we just sit in silence for a while?” Art asks. “It’s just that each time one of us opens their mouth, we start fighting. I wouldn’t put it past us to start arguing about who gets to apologize first and about what.” A little smirk appears on his lips. “I’m just glad to see you. I want to sit next to you and not feel like either of us has to defend himself from any cutting words of the other. You know?”

The thick grooves in Art’s forehead wrinkle even further. Paul does know. He nods and looks at the water in the pool, which reflects the sky above their heads, a collection of dazzling blue and snow white.

“Huh,” the word comes out before he can stop it, “That damn cloud.”

“What cloud?”

“Nothing. Never mind.” He bumps his shoulder to Art’s and smiles, the first genuine smile lighting up his features in ages.

+

When Edie comes up to them from behind with a tray carrying lunch for the both of them, she smiles, too.

Paul is wearing his signature Yankees baseball cap, and she sees that he’s given Art one too, for sun protection. Her grin even gets wider when she starts imagining the discussion leading up to Art wearing _that_ on his head.

Not wanting to disturb this quiet reconnection her husband and his oldest friend have going on, she hesitates to take the next few steps. Having no place else to put down the food, she eventually walks to the sunbeds and sets the tray down on one of them with a quiet huff. “Here you go,” she says, and Paul thanks her in return. She doesn’t linger, wants to give them space to work out this thing between them in peace. When she looks at the two of them before turning back and walking back up to the house, Paul, who seems be having his hand enveloped by both of Art’s in Art’s lap, looks ten years younger. Art is looking sheepishly back at her, silently asking for her forgiveness for stealing her husband’s affections at the moment.

Edie is happy for them. She looks back as she’s crossing the lawn. They’re still sitting huddled together, in their own bubble, their upper arms and shoulders lightly touching, backs hunched forward a bit from age and the weight of their friendship through the decades, their food untouched for a while longer.

The sun comes out from behind a cloud, casting everything around her in a pleasant warmth and a golden glow, including the two old friends behind her. See, she thinks, the world is already turning brighter now that they’re talking again. They’ll be alright. 


End file.
